


La Vie en Rose

by meganechicken



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6134509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganechicken/pseuds/meganechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story focuses on Rose, who has single-handedly ruined her own life under the influences of alcohol, self-deprecation and loss. It’s after her only source of support leaves her that she grits her teeth and accepts that something ought to change. This isn't a story of being rescued, of knights in shining armor, of undeterred determination– rather, it's a story of recovery, of bittersweet amendments, and of the clumsy, beautiful thing called love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

We begin the way most stories do– with a breathtaking view of dozens upon dozens of grayscale houses, the occasional passerby and their canine of choice, and with two familiar figures tearing their way through the road.

         We begin with those two familiar figures; one of which was adorned with tousled, windswept hair, a worn, muddy pair of sneakers, and an idiotic smile on his face. The other figure was considerably less pleased at the situation; constantly calling out the other’s name and kicking up dust on her lab coat, blazing in the wind.

         If one were to pass by, or, more likely, _be_ passed by these two individuals, the atmosphere would’ve been that of a comical and lighthearted situation, filled with laughter and exasperated cries of “For the love of god, John, get your ass over here!”

         However, this story isn’t about the well-loved boy and his well-meaning sister, as important as they are. Nor does it involve the sunshine on their faces and the clear skies that framed the almost idyllic scenario.

         The setting is much, much grimier as we enter the residence of Rose Lalonde. Instead of the distinct scent of sweat and sun-beaten concrete, one could make out the intoxicating musk of the finest of wines and the cheapest of beers. Rather than childish bickering and cicadas, there were quiet hiccups and strings of slurred words. Rather than two siblings with their whole lives ahead of them, there was a girl who had potentially wasted all of hers.

         This is a story about a girl who would end a chapter of her life in order to start another one; a better one.

         And this is the story of how it all went in flames.


	2. Molotov

It was 10:30 in the morning when the last empty bottle was shucked into a large plastic bag, landing with a quiet _chink_ and lying among numerous other bottles and crumpled balls of tissues.

         It was 10:30 in the morning when Rose Lalonde decided to toss every single bottle of alcohol into the garbage and make sure they would never see the light of day ever again. When Rose Lalonde decided that she was “better than this”, and wasn’t “dependent on weird liquors alone”.

         After disposing bag after bag of empty spirits, Rose felt a need to clean everything else in her home. There was an itch that needed to be scratched, and by God was Rose going to get to it.

         If one’s house was a reflection of one’s soul, then Rose’s soul was one of questionable hygiene and potential liver failure. Making sure to keep a tolerable distance from the room upstairs, second from the left, the girl crashed into every other room, armed with an array of cleaning products and garbed with rubber gloves and a dusty apron. Neglecting all sentimental value, she mercilessly tossed out any old memory (especially the ones that made her falter even if just for a moment) and furiously scrubbed down on every possible surface. Nostalgia was a demon that she has had more than enough of, and she was more than willing to drown it out with bleach and soapy suds.

        

         It was 6:00 in the afternoon when Rose checked the time again. Her house was clean of filth, alcohol, and most of what remained of a few months ago. The girl was perched on her bed, pursing her lips. Something else needed to be done.

          Her eyes scanned her uncharacteristically tidy abode, and eventually landed on a dusty violin case. Perhaps this was it.

 

         It was 8:50 in the evening when she walked along 8th street. Only the bravest and perhaps, the most naïve of souls ever made their way down this path for two reasons. Not only did the cobblestones along the road point every which way, meeting your soles in the most erratic of positions, but so did the salespeople. Outside their stores were the infamous storekeepers of 8th Street, ready to look into your very being with a smile that never quite reached their eyes.

         If you somehow made it past the almost-hypnotic masses outside the stores, you also had to face the tempting goods within. Every store display was lined with frills and ribbons of violet, captivating every passerby and capturing every hard-earned paycheck.

 

         The soft sound of a bell chime was the only announcement of Rose’s arrival. A long time ago, the girl would send emails, or, if it suited her fancy, a handwritten letter to warn the shopkeepers of her impending entrance. These weren’t the results of a flamboyant ego, however; one had to be prepared if _the_ Rose Lalonde arrived on their very doorstep.

         Had to, anyway.

         Nowadays, all she had to do was walk in without a word.

        

         Passing customers kept a respectful distance from the wayward madame. The sway of her hips, the straightness of her back, and the downward tilt of her lips demanded respect and quite possibly, fear as well. (For laughs, of course.) These were the qualities that made Rose, well… _Rose_. If one wasn’t paying very close attention, they wouldn’t have noticed the quirk in her brow, the slight crease on her forehead, and the unsure steps she took. They wouldn’t have noticed that these things weren’t Rose-like at all.

         Fortunately for Rose, the few people who would notice such things weren’t here.

         The dame walked up to the counter and encountered an unfamiliar backside. Strange. She knew things must have changed since her last appearance, but the staff of this store were almost a steady constant in their life. It was almost unsettling. She coughed slightly, so as to gain this mysterious person’s attention.

         “Excuse me, do you know where a certain Mr. Strider is?”

         The figure snickered.

         “ _Mr_. Strider?”

         The figure turned, and violet eyes met ocean blue.

         “He took the day off,” he began, eyes shifting from side to side before leaning in, dropping his voice to a poorly-executed whisper. “… _Again_. He hasn’t really been around for awhile! You might catch him if you come again tomorrow, but again, that’s a maybe.”

         She sighed.

         Of all days, she had to arrive on the one her brother wasn’t here. Of course.

         Taking note of the disappointment on her features, the fellow spoke up.

         “Y’know, I might be able to help you with whatever you need to do with well, _that_ ,” he suggested, pointedly looking at the aged violin case in her possession. “After all, Dave isn’t the only jack of all trades around here,” he added, shrugging almost nonchalantly. To his delight, this evoked a smirk from the lady.

        “Of course. Forgive me for overlooking such potential wisdom and assistance,” Rose replied, bowing for dramatic flair to which the other returned in kind, resulting in mutual snickering.

          As she gracefully returned to her standing position, she lifted the case with a gloved hand, offering it to the gentleman.

        “I came here to sell a treasured instrument of mine. ‘Out with the old, and in with the new’, as they say.”

         To her surprise, the other didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm. In fact, one might say he looked a bit disappointed with her decision. Before she could try to amend whatever harrowing mistake she made, his eyes immediately brightened at what had to be one of his best ideas yet.

        “Okay, I can do that for you. But, there are certain…”, he dragged on this word as he searched for something that he prayed was convincing, “… _conditions_ when it comes to selling ‘treasured instruments’,” the boy finished, waggling his eyebrows to assure her that that he meant business.

         With such a ridiculous demeanor, how could she not at least try to humor him?

         Returning her violin case to rest at her side, Rose offered a playful smile.

         “What ‘conditions’ need to be met, my good sir?”

         His smile widened.

         “I thought you’d never ask.”

         Gesturing Rose to follow him, he lead the way past the numerous sections of drums, guitars, and strange beeping boxes, all the while, blabbering about what he usually did with his time here.

       “Some days, I teach lessons on how to rock out with the triangle, others, I work on my beat-boxing, making jams that totally out-does the works of my boss. Totally.”

         Rose feigned a small gasp.

         “You’re certainly well-versed with music.”

         “Hehe, I guess! As fun as that all is, I usually spend my days with the _best_ ,” he waved his arms around for emphasis, “instrument in the entire shop.”

         “Really? And here I thought you were fond of triangles and rhythmic spitting alike.”

         He laughed, and said merely replied with, “You’ll see.”

         It didn’t take long before they reached the end of the shop, desolate, save for the oaken stage that stood on it’s own, bare from any sort of curtain or lavished embellishment. Any sort of grandeur was stripped from the now humble stage, almost abandoned along with the instrument that rested on top.

         The piano was aged with time and stood in the center of the modest stage. It’s large size drew the attention of Rose, who was pleased by it’s aesthetically-pleasing build. She found herself to be pleased at it’s condition– someone’s (oh, who on earth could it possibly be?) been taking care of this piano.

          “A- _hem_ ,” the boy started, facing away with his arms akimbo. “The condition that must be met before you sell your treasured violin _is_ …!”

         The fellow turned around, gave yet another grand bow before swiftly facing Rose and stating with absolute sincerity, “We need to jam.”

         Rose’s eyebrows raised slightly.

         “Jam?”, she asked.

        “Jam,” he assured with a nod.

         She faced him silently for just a moment, soaking in the hilarity of the situation. To say she was shocked, or frustrated, or anything of the sort would’ve been absolutely incorrect.

         She was delighted.

         With a smile, Rose chuckled before nodding.

         “Alright, let’s jam.”


	3. Dolcetto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some sweet jams are laid.

         It was 9:30 at night when the two prepared for their long-awaited jam session. The stage was set, and the atmosphere was lax, set by the steady hum of customers making their way through the store. On said stage were the performers; a violinist and her accompanist, cracking his knuckles. Nosy customers may have taken note of their intriguing combination– what was one to think of a bedazzling maiden and her ragtag accompanist?

          Curious wanderers made their way to the quieter part of the shop, lead by shades of sparkling violet and faded hues of cerulean.

         Taking note of their small audience, Rose let out a nervous laugh.

         “What a crowd.”

         Her attendant, who was stretching every which way, nodded eagerly.

         “They were probably called over by your siren song,” he joked, referring back to what had to be the flattest E on planet Earth.

         “I _did_ warn you that it’s been awhile since I’ve played.”

         “You didn’t warn me that you’d suffer from a case of stage fright, did you?” He pulled a grin at Rose’s raised eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”

         She didn’t seem nearly as convinced, but she returned the smile anyways.

         They had agreed on playing a reasonably easy piece (for Rose’s sake, she assumed), and her ‘partner’ was more than willing to assist: digging through archive after archive of dusty music binders until… voila! What he claimed to be the perfect piece.

         The binder of music remained unopened, laying on a dusty stand as Rose eyed the other, cracking every single knuckle in his hands (and then some more). It was strange, no––- he was strange. But it wasn’t a bad thing. Not at all.

          Her eyes flickered towards the despondent binder as the cracking of knuckles came to an end. He waved towards their small, expectant crowd.

         “Are you ready?”

         She smirked, a sad attempt at feigning confidence.

         “We’ll see.”

 

         A veil of silence washed over the crowd as the piano rang out. The first notes came in a steady beat, too fast to be a march, too slow to be a ragtime song. The notes hardly even changed, and yet it created a jaunty, playful tune. It didn’t take long before his head whipped in her direction, indicating her incoming cue.

         Still, she can’t recall ever hearing a piece like this, and yet… It seemed all too familiar to her. What was this piece?

         Unable to shake off the mystery behind this song, nor the extremely coy smile that was facing her direction, she pulled the binder open.

         ...And the page inside was blank. 

         Ah yes.        

         Sabotage.

         Rose flashed him an icy grin, one that made his previously cheeky expression pale. Nonetheless, the crowd seemed to only grow, more and more curious patrons walking in.

         The show must go on.

 

         … Okay, but did it really? When did she last play– at the very least, _touch_ this violin? She couldn’t play, nonetheless, improvise. Her mind reeled back to any remaining tunes in the recesses of her brain, but she turned up fruitless, save for the increasing amount of panic rising in her chest. Mental note: have a _very_ lovely word with him once this is done and over with, dorky grin and all.

         Tentatively, she raised her violin up, her bow at the ready.

         She was already envisioning her will when a holler brought her back to her senses.

         The jester again. Pray tell.

         “Hey– Relax! You just have to have fun!”

         What was she? A robot?

         Of course she could have fun, she just… She just needed to figure out how on Earth was she supposed to… She didn’t know.

         To play. Just…

         Just.

         Breathe.

 

         Many pairs of eyebrows- even _cheers_ from the crowd- rose when the sound of her first note rang out.

         Followed by it were more notes: quiet, hesitant, before a sudden bellowing crescendo. Her melody, no, her _song_ had started, and their duet had just begun.

         Rose instinctively took the lead, John’s steady notes keeping her on track. From her hands came an almost somber tune, which surprised absolutely nobody. Her notes rang clear, each dire note striking ears and pulling at heartstrings. And yet, unbeknownst to Rose was that her accompanist, humble and helpful that he was, was soon to take away her spotlight.

         Her eyes widened as the previously simple, ringing piano notes grew more and more complex and before anyone knew it, both parts were up to par– no longer was he an accompanist, but another rivaling solo.

         Shocked, her notes grew quiet.

         Oh, how the tables had turned.

         Curious as to what his next move would be, Rose glanced at her partner, hands flying over the piano– he was obviously well-experienced. His song, unlike hers, with was almost sassy and jovial; it was a refreshing change of pace.

         It was, to nobody’s surprise, a ragtime tune.

         A slightly slow one, which again, she could only assume was for her own sake.

         How should one accompanist one so bold and loud, however? 

         Was it even feasible?

         With the crowd’s cheers reaching her own ears, Rose figured she had no choice. She had to play; and play the only way she knew how—she fought back.

         By now the crowd could tell that despite the papers at their stands, both parts were purely improvised, and yet… The violinist, serene as ever, quickly rejoined, her part equally as busy, (her fingers sliding all over the fingerboard) only… more morose.

         Two different songs: one delightful, the other sullen, and yet, both harmonious. One might even say... complimentary.

         No longer were the two partners, but equals, neck-to-neck.

         Both parties grew louder, their hands now a blur as they played almost what had to be a tango– their notes ascending some sort of scale, getting louder and higher and stronger until--

         They reached the pinnacle.

         And as suddenly as they began, they stopped.

 

Cheers from the crowd rang out– even more so when the other literally jumped next to Rose, much to her surprise and his delight– his grin wider than ever. (...Did he always have those buckteeth?)

“We did it!”

        “Oh, right. We did.” Her adrenaline was still rushing, the lights were still so, so bright, and… wow, the crowd actually liked that?

        “…We really did.”

         The crowd started to disperse, and with it, the distance between them.

         “John. John Egbert,” he started. “Though I probably should have introduced myself earlier, hehe.”

         He offered his hand.

         “Rose. Rose Lalonde. And after all that, well… I’d rather get to know you now than never, Mr. Egbert.”

         His nose wrinkled at such formality. 

“Please– call me John. 

         “…Besides, being called Mr. Egbert feels weird.”

          “Well… I guess you’ll have to call me Rose.”

         She was tempted to laugh at him– He really was full of grins tonight, huh?

         (…As if she was any better.)

         “We have ourselves a deal, Rose.”

         Finally, she took his hand and shook on it.

         “Indeed we do, John.

         “Indeed we do.”

 

         And it was 11:00 at night when Rose Lalonde left the building, violin in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My god.  
> This chapter took longer (so, so much longer) than I anticipated, and for that, I apologize. From finding an ideal piece (and deciding whether said piece should be a piano/violin duet or simply a song for the violin with a piano accompanist– and then scrapping it all together) to attempting to illustrate the experience of picking up a violin for the first time in forever, it was! Difficult to say the least. Nonetheless, thank you for your patience. (Feedback and criticism would be very much appreciated, as there is always room for improvement.)
> 
> Additional references/articles that I looked into that helped me write this chapter are:  
> http://emmadarwin.typepad.com/thisitchofwriting/2011/10/are-you-showing-too-much.html (on the art of Show, don’t Tell)


End file.
